Free Switchback Stories by Iain Edward Henn Page B

the remains out in the country.’
    ‘You’re a wonderful person,’ he’d said in mock tones. ‘That takes care of the body. But we still have the problem of the police. They’ll turn the place upside down for clues. Her parents would never believe she just upped and left me.’
    ‘Perhaps we need to invent some plausible story,’ Anna said.
    Well, fate had delivered that, Brian thought to himself. The incinerator flames licked at the night sky. He would go inside soon, to clean up the bedroom. He was staring up at the moon when his neighbor, chatty soccer mom Ellie Stanton, poked her head over the old timber fence.
    ‘Funny time of night to burning off, Brian,’ she said, ‘Lovely night, though.’
    ‘Yes. Just had an urge to burn off some excess rubbish. Maybe those scenes of Atlanta burning in tonight’s movie gave me the idea.’
    His neighbor grinned. ‘Oh, yes. I love “Gone With The Wind”. Must have seen it a dozen times. Michelle invited me in to watch her recording of it just a couple of weeks ago.’
    ‘Recording?’ queried Brian.
    ‘That’s right. The one she recorded off the telly last time it was shown. About a year and a half ago I think she said it was.’
    The color drained from Brian’s face. ‘Does that recording have a news flash … about a plane crash …?’ His voice wavered.
    Ellie nodded. ‘Now that you mention it – yes, terrible business.’ She waved and began to head back inside. ‘I guess that’s the trouble with recording movies direct to the hard drive on these digital things, isn’t it? No tapes, no discs. It’s all in the one unit. I’d never know if I was watching something ‘live’ or something stored on the drive. And you get all the old news reports as well.’

A SEED OF DOUBT
One
    I t was the second week of the howling winds. Sweeping across the green pastoral landscape of the valley, they had turned the usually moderate Autumn into something darker: a preview of a grim winter.
    Three or four days of southerly gusts was not unusual, thought Jillian Ashworth, but this was the ninth day and the winds, which sometimes bayed like a pack of hounds, had become the talk of the town. The headlights of Jillian’s crimson Toyota pierced the darkness of the winding road, illuminating the wind-swept branches of the roadside beechwoods as they danced like ghostly wraiths.
    Despite the late hour – it was 12.45am – she had driven rapidly along the dark country roads. Now she turned onto the steep rise of the Bellwood Villa driveway. The tall iron gate, set in the stone fence that surrounded the property, was already open. Just ahead, Jillian saw the police car pull up on the paved courtyard.
    She parked and stepped from the Toyota. There were several lights on inside the house but no sign of movement. Alighting from the police car, two officers approached her – a young man, tall, lean, sandy-haired, and a woman with reddish colouring. Senior Constable Don Christie hurriedly introduced himself and Constable Anne Wright. ‘There are no outward signs of disturbance,’ he commented. ‘You stay by your car, Miss Ashworth. Constable Wright and I will investigate the premises.’
    ‘Mrs. Bellwood was very distraught when she phoned me. She was certain there was an intruder in the house.’
    Don Christie nodded his understanding. He’d never met Jillian before, but he knew her by reputation. She was the owner of the trendy new boutique in the nearby township of Oakvale. She had a slender figure that would have looked good in any of the clothes she sold; medium-length chestnut brown hair, dark eyes and a smattering of freckles across her elfin nose. He gave her a brief, reassuring nod, then turned towards the house.
    While his partner skirted around the side to check the rear, he headed up the long flight of front steps. The door was wide and heavy, an attractive embossed oak. It was slightly ajar and Don eased through into the central hallway. The light from the